Louboutins & Aprons

Chapter 6:mark

“Chef mark?

I didn’t look up.

My hands were busy preparing the vegetables for the afternoon service. The kitchen was warm, the counters were crowded, and three different orders needed my attention.

“Yes?”

The waitress remained near the kitchen entrance.

“She’s here again.”

I paused.

The knife stopped halfway through another slice.

I didn’t need to ask who she meant.

There was only one woman in the entire city who had become recognizable enough to be referred to as she.

“Valentina?”

“Yes.”

I sighed.

Of course she was.

It had been more than a month since Valentina De Luca first walked into the restaurant and told me that she wanted me.

Since then, she had returned almost every day.

Sometimes, she came for lunch.

Sometimes, she arrived in the afternoon and stayed until dinner.

On a few occasions, she appeared during the busiest hours, sat at the same table near the window, and watched me move around the restaurant.

She always chose the same seat.

The table closest to the kitchen.

The one with the clearest view of almost everything I did.

And she watched.

Not in a quiet, subtle way.

Valentina did not seem capable of doing anything subtly.

She watched me prepare food.

She watched me speak to customers.

She watched me walk between the kitchen and the dining area.

And whenever our eyes met, she smiled as though she had been waiting for that exact moment.

I still found it strange.

Very strange.

I had told her several times that I wasn’t interested.

She had ignored that.

I had avoided her table.

She kept coming back.

I had returned every expensive gift she brought.

She had started ordering food instead.

I had stopped speaking to her unless it was necessary.

She continued finding reasons to speak to me.

Valentina was persistent.

I would give her that.

But persistence did not mean I liked her.

I didn’t.

At least, I didn’t think I did.

“She’s sitting at her usual table?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Then ignore her.”

The waitress blinked.

“Chef?”

“Ignore her.”

“She asked for you.”

“She always asks for me.”

“She said she wanted to say hello.”

“She can say hello from her table.”

The waitress smiled.

“You’re being rude.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re always working.”

“That’s because I’m a chef.”

“She comes here every day.”

“I know.”

“She’s probably lonely.”

“She has an entire company.”

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t lonely.”

I looked at her.

“Do you have work to do?”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Then do it.”

The waitress laughed quietly before walking away.

I returned to preparing the food.

Valentina was not my responsibility.

She was a customer.

A very unusual customer.

But still a customer.

I had no reason to think about her.

And I definitely had no reason to leave the kitchen just because she was sitting in the restaurant.

So I didn’t.

For the next three hours, I worked.

I prepared sauces.

I checked orders.

I helped the cooks.

I spoke with suppliers.

I tasted food.

I corrected mistakes.

The restaurant became busier as the afternoon continued.

Customers arrived.

Tables filled.

The kitchen became louder.

And for three hours, I forgot about Valentina.

Almost.

Every time the kitchen doors opened, I caught myself looking toward the table near the window.

She was still there.

At first, I assumed she was waiting for me.

That was what she usually did.

She would sit with a drink and watch me.

Sometimes, she would order lunch.

Sometimes, she would ask one of the waitresses to tell me she wanted to speak.

But today was different.

Valentina wasn’t watching me.

She was working.

The table in front of her was covered with papers.

There were folders stacked beside her.

Several documents were spread across the table.

Her phone was placed near one of the folders, and a tablet rested beside her glass.

She had not ordered food.

She had not asked for me.

She had not even looked toward the kitchen.

Her attention remained fixed on the documents.

I watched her through the small opening between the kitchen doors.

She looked—

Different.

That was the only word I could find.

Usually, Valentina entered the restaurant like she owned the place.

Her heels announced her arrival before anyone saw her.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Everyone looked up.

Everyone noticed.

She carried herself with confidence.

Her back was always straight.

Her chin was always lifted.

Her expression was calm and controlled.

And her eyes?

Her eyes always seemed to be searching for me.

But today, she looked tired.

Her dark hair fell over one shoulder.

She pushed it behind her ear without looking up.

There were papers everywhere.

She was reading one document while making notes on another.

Every few minutes, she picked up her phone, answered a message, and returned to work.

She looked focused.

Serious.

Busy.

She looked like the woman I had seen on the covers of business magazines.

Not the strange woman who followed me around the restaurant and repeated that she wanted me.

This Valentina seemed different.

Quieter.

I watched her turn another page.

She rubbed her forehead.

Then she picked up a pen.

I looked toward one of the waitresses.

“Has Valentina ordered anything?”

The waitress looked surprised.

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“No.”

“Not even coffee?”

“She ordered sparkling water.”

“And food?”

“No.”

“She’s been here for hours.”

“I know.”

“She said she had work.”

“What kind of work?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Why not?”

The waitress smiled.

“Because she’s not my boss.”

I frowned.

“Has she been working the entire time?”

“Yes.”

“She hasn’t asked for me?”

“No.”

“Good.”

The waitress looked at me.

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.”

“You asked about her.”

“I asked if she ordered food.”

“You asked what she was doing.”

“I was curious.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

She smiled.

“You should take her something.”

“She didn’t order.”

“She’s been here for three hours.”

“She can order if she’s hungry.”

“She looks tired.”

“That isn’t my problem.”

“You’re a chef.”

“Yes.”

“You feed people.”

“She has a menu.”

The waitress shook her head.

Then she walked away.

I returned to the kitchen.

But I couldn’t stop looking toward Valentina.

She was still reading.

She had not moved.

Her foodless table bothered me.

I didn’t know why.

Maybe because she came to the restaurant every day.

Maybe because she always ordered something.

Maybe because seeing her sitting there without food felt wrong.

Or maybe—

No.

It didn’t matter.

I looked at the ingredients in front of me.

Then I picked up a clean pan.

“What are you making?” one of the cooks asked.

“Pasta.”

“We don’t have a pasta order.”

“I know.”

“Is it for you?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

I looked toward the dining area.

“Valentina.”

The cook stared at me.

“Valentina De Luca?”

“Yes.”

“The woman you don’t like?”

“I never said I didn’t like her.”

“You said she was strange.”

“She is strange.”

“You avoid her.”

“She distracts me.”

“You told everyone to ignore her.”

“I’m making her food, aren’t I?”

The cook smiled.

“You like her.”

“No.”

“You’re cooking for her.”

“She hasn’t eaten.”

“She can order.”

“She’s working.”

“So?”

“So she needs food.”

“You could tell a waitress to bring her something.”

“I could.”

“But you’re making it.”

“I’m the chef.”

“You’re making her favorite pasta.”

I looked at him.

“How do you know it’s her favorite?”

“She orders it every Thursday.”

I paused.

“She does?”

“Yes.”

I looked toward the dining area.

I had noticed what she wore.

I had noticed where she sat.

I had noticed how often she looked at me.

But I hadn’t realized I remembered what she ordered.

That was strange.

I returned my attention to the pan.

“It’s just pasta.”

“Of course, Chef.”

I prepared the dish myself.

Fresh pasta.

A light cream sauce.

Herbs.

Vegetables.

Nothing complicated.

Nothing special.

Just food.

When it was finished, I placed it carefully on a plate.

The waitress approached.

“I’ll take it.”

“No.”

She stopped.

“No?”

“I’ll bring it.”

The waitress smiled.

“Why?”

“I’m already standing.”

“You’re standing in the kitchen.”

“Exactly.”

“You could give it to me.”

“I said I’ll bring it.”

She raised both hands.

“Okay.”

I picked up the plate.

Then I walked toward the dining area.

Valentina was still focused on her documents.

She didn’t notice me.

I stopped beside her table.

“You look exhausted.”

Her head lifted.

For a second, she looked surprised.

Then she smiled.

It was not the confident smile she usually gave me.

It was smaller.

Tired.

But real.

“Yes,” she said.

I placed the pasta in front of her.

She looked down.

Then back at me.

“Chasing after you is exhausting.”

I stared at her.

Of course.

For one moment, I thought she had changed.

I thought she had come to the restaurant because she needed somewhere quiet to work.

But no.

She was still Valentina.

She still wanted me.

“Then why do you do it?” I asked.

She picked up her fork.

“Because I want you.”

“That is not a reason.”

“It is the only reason.”

“You’ve been coming here for more than a month.”

“I know.”

“You’re tired.”

“Yes.”

“You have work.”

“A lot.”

“And you’re still chasing me.”

“I prefer the word pursuing.”

“What is the difference?”

“Pursuing sounds more elegant.”

“You’re sitting in my restaurant with half of your office on the table.”

“I know.”

“You look busy.”

“I am busy.”

I looked at the papers.

There were several large folders.

Some documents had notes written across them.

Numbers filled the pages.

Contracts.

Reports.

Financial information.

“This looks important,” I said.

“It is.”

“Then why aren’t you doing it at your office?”

She picked up her fork.

“Because if I stayed at the office, I would have missed you.”

I looked at her.

She continued.

“And I didn’t want to miss you.”

The words were simple.

She said them quietly.

No dramatic expression.

No smile.

No attempt to make me uncomfortable.

She simply returned her attention to the pasta.

“That’s why I brought my work here,” she added. “I needed to finish it, but I also wanted to see you.”

I didn’t answer.

For some reason, I didn’t know what to say.

Valentina had rearranged her entire workday just to sit inside my restaurant.

Not to demand my attention.

Not to follow me.

Not to repeat that she wanted me every five minutes.

She had brought her work because she wanted to be near me.

That was—

Strange.

Still strange.

But different.

“You could have come after work,” I said.

“I have meetings after work.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I have meetings.”

“The next day?”

“Meetings.”

“Do you ever stop working?”

She looked at me.

“Do you?”

“I work in a restaurant.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is.”

She smiled.

Then she took another bite.

“This is good.”

“Of course it is.”

“You made it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You haven’t eaten.”

“You noticed?”

“You’ve been sitting there for three hours.”

“You noticed that too?”

“The entire restaurant noticed.”

She smiled again.

“You brought it yourself.”

“I was already standing.”

“You were in the kitchen.”

“I was walking past.”

“You walked past my table.”

“Coincidence.”

She looked at me.

I looked back.

Then she smiled.

I immediately looked away.

“You should eat,” I said.

“I am.”

“And finish your work.”

“I will.”

I nodded.

Then I turned to leave.

“Mark.”

I stopped.

“What?”

“Thank you.”

I looked over my shoulder.

Valentina was holding her fork.

Her documents surrounded her.

Her hair had fallen over one shoulder again.

And for the first time since I met her, she looked—

Normal.

Not like the Ice Queen.

Not like the woman everyone feared.

Not like the powerful COO whose name appeared on every business magazine.

She looked like a tired woman trying to finish her work while eating pasta.

And somehow—

She looked cute.

I immediately frowned.

Cute?

No.

That wasn’t right.

Valentina De Luca was not cute.

She wore designer dresses.

She carried expensive handbags.

She walked in heels sharp enough to injure someone.

She could probably destroy a company before finishing her morning coffee.

There was nothing cute about her.

“Don’t thank me,” I said.

“Why?”

“It’s food.”

“You made it for me.”

“You needed to eat.”

She smiled.

“Still. Thank you.”

I nodded.

Then I walked away.

⸻

The rest of the afternoon was busy.

I returned to the kitchen.

Orders continued.

Customers arrived.

Employees asked questions.

And somehow, I kept thinking about Valentina.

Not the version of her who followed me around.

Not the woman who walked into the restaurant and announced that she wanted me.

The other version.

The one sitting quietly with documents.

The one who had worked for three hours without ordering food.

The one who had looked exhausted.

The one who said—

I didn’t want to miss you.

The words stayed with me.

I told myself they meant nothing.

Valentina was persistent.

That was all.

She wanted me.

She had made that clear.

But she didn’t know me.

And I didn’t know her.

I had no reason to think about it.

Still, every time I walked past the dining area, I looked toward her table.

She was working.

Sometimes, she ate.

Sometimes, she answered calls.

She remained there until evening.

When she finally left, I watched her walk toward the entrance.

She picked up her handbag.

Organized her documents.

Put on her sunglasses.

Then she looked toward me.

Our eyes met.

She smiled.

“Good night, Mark.”

“Good night.”

Then she walked away.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The sound of her heels disappeared through the restaurant doors.

And the table near the window became empty.

⸻

That night, I went home.

My apartment was quiet.

I placed my keys on the counter and removed my jacket.

Normally, after a long day, I took a shower, ate something small, and went to bed.

But tonight, my mind kept returning to the restaurant.

To Valentina.

I remembered the papers.

The folders.

The tired look in her eyes.

The way she had pushed her hair behind her ear.

The way she had smiled when I brought her food.

And the way she said—

I didn’t want to miss you.

I sat on the edge of my bed.

“This is ridiculous.”

She was still strange.

Nothing had changed.

She was still too direct.

Too confident.

Too persistent.

And she was still not my type.

But then I remembered what she wore.

A fitted black dress.

The material followed the shape of her body.

It was elegant.

Expensive.

Her heels were sharp and high.

Her hair was perfectly styled.

She looked powerful.

She looked like Valentina De Luca.

But while she sat surrounded by paperwork, she had looked—

Cute.

Just cute.

Nothing else.

I repeated the word inside my head.

Cute.

Not beautiful.

Not attractive.

Not interesting.

Just cute.

I lay down and stared at the ceiling.

She was not my type.

I did not like her.

I had no intention of encouraging her.

And I was not going to let her strange pursuit affect my life.

But as I closed my eyes, I saw her again.

Sitting at the table.

Surrounded by papers.

Eating the pasta I had made.

Smiling at me.

I didn’t want to miss you.

I opened my eyes.

“This is going to be a problem.”

Then I turned off the light.

Because for the first time since Valentina De Luca entered my life—

I wasn’t completely sure that I wanted her to stop coming